Wanna Be Loved
by sharleenhale
Summary: Set sometime during season 9 - Sam is tired of being angry and Dean just wants to be loved.


**Wanna Be Loved**

Legs stretched out, arms crossed, and propped up against the headboard with a pillow, Dean Winchester is lounging on his queen-sized motel bed; the hour is late in Wichitan, Iowa, but he's not ready for sleep with his clothes still on — boots included. The television is on across from the foot of his bed as well, but Dean doesn't really have any interest in the cable channel's movie of the week either. Eyes closed and head slowly nodding to the music, he's lost to the beat playing out of the large headphones he's wearing. Rock is what he's listening to, but it's a calming melody that he has on repeat. He needs calm right now, needs a lifeline.

You see, there are times, like now, when things between him and Sam have gone all pear-shaped and sideways that Dean's thoughts try bleeding black, tries pulling him under the weight of his own burden and threaten to drown him. Sam isn't talking to Dean, barely even looks at him these days. Hell, the guy's only hunting with Dean out of convenience, said things like "faster" and "safety in numbers," but Dean will take what he can get. Always does. It's his way, his whole fucking flaw. Can't do a goddamn thing without his baby brother, but Sam's no kid; he doesn't need Dean to watch his back or fill any holes. Sam doesn't need him and this time he won't try to save him if Dean's bleeding out from some hunt gone wrong. Sam's words, not Dean's. Hurt like hell to hear 'em too.

Tequila bottle between his legs not forgotten, after taking a deep swig of his drink, Dean can't help but relish the burn. The liquor helps; it always does, but Dean's not fool enough to believe that it's the end all remedy. There's still a Sam-shaped hole inside him even though his brother's asleep and sprawled out on the other bed in the room. Dean's closed lids slowly rise. His gaze is lowered, pointing toward his booted toes, but his eyes are glassy, unfocused even, as he gazes into the middle space between this world and the one his mind has drifted off to. He's recalling early years when he had developed a long haired shadow that seemed happy, grateful even to have Dean as a part of his family.

As Dean quietly polishes off the rest of the bottle while lost in his thoughts, Sam lays as still as a corpse under his covers. He doesn't want to break the mood Dean's in as he continues to stealthily stare at his brother through slit lids. Even after so many months, after knowing the truth and all the shit that's happened because of it, there's one truth Sam can't erase no matter how hard he tries and he's tried. No matter the mud he's dragged him through, no matter how selfish the prick can be at times, no matter how demanding and pigheaded and all around stupid, Sam still misses the hell out of his stupid big brother and he knows. Sam fucking knows that, when it comes to family, hell, when it comes to _him_, behind every fucked up action, Dean's decisions are always made with a touch of love.

Selfish? God, yes, but Sam still can't deny that there is no one left alive on this earth that loves him as much as Dean. Hell, he's been trying to get away from his brother for years and the bastard's still here — desperately clinging on so tight that he can barely breathe. Kind of like a leech. That thought prompts Sam to grin.

It feels good. To smile, that is. He can't even remember the last time he did it, especially in conjunction with Dean, but he is and it feels good. Sam looks at his brother, really looks at him just sitting there quietly nodding along to his music and Sam just... He just… There comes a point in every person's life when they're just so tired of being crippled with anger no matter how justified that anger feels. That dwindling storm inside Sam simmers to a barely there roar as he watches Dean's hand around the bottle tighten along with the sudden pinch of his features. Apparently whatever his brother is listening to has stuck a chord. Sam's guts clench from Dean's teeth suddenly sinking into his bottom lip in an obvious attempt to keep it from quivering. Whatever his brother is thinking of has water gathering above his lash line and Sam watches, pained and knowing, as Dean tilts his head and stares right at him.

It takes a second, but Dean suddenly realizes his brother isn't asleep. Embarrassed and feeling way too exposed, Dean swipes at his eyes with the back of a forearm before yanking off his headphones and making a quick grab for his keys. A touch too raw, his normal walls aren't up and he's needing space, hell, even more space than the giant chasm already between them, but Sam doesn't let him. He's already up from the bed, pushing Dean back on his own mattress with a stern "sit."

"Dude-"

"Sit," Sam tells him again with the flat of his palm on Dean's chest unmoving.

Disgruntled and still red around the ears, Dean scoots back into place. Sure that Dean isn't going to try to bolt again, Sam settles into the spot next to him all light and easy. He feels light and easy too. Letting go can do that to a person. Dean just sits there, legs out, arms crossed, a look of trying to be stoic but utterly failing on his face.

"Dude-" Dean tries again, but Sam cuts him off.

"No talking."

Long legs out in front of him atop the blankets, Sam has no idea what's playing on the TV but he directs his sleepy attention to it anyway. His eyelids lower another fraction of an inch as he scoots down on the bed enough so that when he leans over, his head is resting against Dean's shoulder. The position brings back memories of a better time between them and Sam is left feeling both saddened and a little warmer inside.

As for Dean, he's a whole hell of a lot confused by Sam's sudden actions. After all, he was the one who said they were no longer-

"Night, big brother."

It's like a punch to the gut, but in a good way if that even makes sense. Dean lets out the held breath he'd been holding since their last heart to heart that left him wanting to just curl up and die; he's shaky and relieved and he has all kinds of _feels_. He can't help it. God, he tries, but he really can't. He lifts the arm Sam is leaning against and draws the huge bastard in. He's thankful, so fucking thankful for the olive branch extended that it frigging hurts to breathe. He's also thankful that Sam can't see the wet tracks on his face. But Sam can hear the raggedness in his voice and take a wild stab in the right direction. He grins and Dean senses it because he's next grumbling around something resembling a pout.

"Fuck you, dude. This doesn't make me a girl."

"No," Sam agrees, not minding at all that Dean's still squishing him to his chest. "It just makes you family."


End file.
